rom that in which you exaggerated last time."

"The pursuit of literature has made you not only precise but didactic,"
she observed.

"There is a good deal, if not of bitterness, of very real
disappointment, and some depression."

"Which will be all gone long before the curtain goes up for the next
performance."

"Ah, yes, to be sure; but nevertheless you underrate the disappointments
of youth,--because they are not tragic you think they are not
bitter,--you have always underrated them."

She met his eyes calmly, though he had spoken with a certain emphasis.

"We are talking in a circle," she replied. "That was what I said in the
first place--that as we grow older we have more sympathy with defeat."

"You are incorrigible," he said, smiling; "you will accept neither
consolation nor reproof."

"Life brings enough of both," she answered; "it does not need to be
supplemented by one's friends."

The train was moving very slowly; people were laughing and talking gayly
all about them; more lights had come out on the water, and a gentle
breeze had suddenly sprung up.

"Just what do you mean by that, I wonder?" he said slowly.

"Not much," she answered lightly. "But I do mean," she added, as he
looked away from her, "that, whether it be the consequence of the
altruism of the day, or of advancing age, as I said at first, it has
grown to be provokingly difficult to ignore those who lose more serious
things than a college championship. Verestchagin and such people have
spoiled history for us. Who cares who won a great battle now?--it is
such a small thing to our consciousness compared to the number of people
who were killed--and on one side as well as the other."

"Except, of course, where there is a great principle, not great
possessions, at stake?"

"Yes," she assented, but somewhat doubtfully, "yes, of course."

"But it shows a terrible dearth of interest when we get down to
principles."

"Yes," she said again, laughing. Meanwhile Miss Normaine's niece was
pursuing her own ends with that directness which, though lacking the
evasive subtlety of maturer years, is at once effective and commendable.

"It was nothing but a box of chocolate peppermints," she insisted. "I'd
never be so reckless as to wager anything more without thinking it over.
I have an allowance, and I'm obliged to be careful what I spend."

He looked her over with approval.

"You spend it well," he asserted.

"I have to," she returned, "or